


Make Yourself At Home

by redredribbons



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fingering, M/M, Sleepy Sex, Sticky Sex, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredribbons/pseuds/redredribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt from the Transformers kink meme on LiveJournal: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=14539413#t14539413 </p><p>Pharma ends up trapped at the DJD's base, and in a very awkward situation with Tarn as a result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Yourself At Home

Pharma rested his chin on his hands and huffed a sigh out of one corner of his mouth. The sound of it was buried under the groaning and shrieking of savage winds battering the DJD’s camouflaged base. A half-consumed cube of high-grade sat in front of him, forgotten. Across the small table lounged Tarn, foot resting on his knee, arms crossed behind his head.  
  
“This is all your fault,” Pharma groused, “You did this on purpose.”  
  
Tarn’s optics widened ever so slightly as he replied, “I’m afraid I can’t control the weather, Pharma.”  
  
“Don’t play coy,” the jet sneered, “You deliberately stalled me, knowing full well that the the storm was coming.”  
  
“I invited you to stay for dinner,” Tarn countered, “An invitation which you rather enthusiastically accepted.”  
  
“What I wanted was a quick cube of energon for the road, as it were. Not one of your elaborate--” Pharma waved a hand in the air, searching for words. “Feast things.”  
  
Tarn leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. “And all you had to do was ask, and be on your way. As opposed to very happily indulging in some of Helex’s more elaborate energon creations. Isn’t he talented?”  
  
Pharma’s optics narrowed to frigid blue slits. Beneath his mask, Tarn smiled. Was Pharma pouting? How adorable.  
  
“Or perhaps,” the tank continued, “Your internal chronometer is malfunctioning? Nothing prevented you from checking it, after all. Surely you were not unaware of the weather forecast.”  
  
“I am most definitely not malfunctioning,” Pharma sniffed, staring down his nose at Tarn, “Though a malfunction would be preferable to being stuck here.”  
  
“Technically, you aren’t,” Tarn said lightly, “You can, if you dare, brave the flight back to Delphi. Though it would be... more beneficial... if you refrained from such foolish risk-taking.”  
  
Was that concern in Tarn’s voice? Pharma arched a brow ridge. “Indeed. Wouldn’t want your supply of T-cogs interrupted.”  
  
“No, certainly not,” Tarn replied. Awkward silence descended. Pharma abruptly remembered his high grade and sipped it slowly. It was true; wind this strong would force any jet out of the sky. Temperatures had dropped so low that energon would run sluggish in its lines. The alternative, however...  
  
“You are, of course, welcome to stay here,” Tarn finally broke the silence. His optics burnt a little brighter and Pharma shied away. There was no question that by here Tarn had meant his bed. The jet sucked in a long, tense ventilation. It wasn’t Tarn’s behavior that Pharma feared, but rather his own. Tarn had always been a temptation for him: handsome, intelligent, mannerly, deliciously scandalous. A temptation that he had successfully resisted, largely by attempting to avoid Tarn outside the terms of the T-cog contract.  
  
“And where, exactly, would I be sleeping?” Pharma said. He swallowed thickly as his memory banks suddenly felt the need to catalog the numerous instances when he’d pointedly failed at sticking to business with Tarn. Tonight, for example. The Decepticon had invited him to dinner so cordially and elegantly, and Pharma’s vocalizer had said yes before his processor could compute the ramifications.  
  
“Why, in my bed, of course,” Tarn replied smoothly.  
  
“Right. Of course. So where will you be sleeping?” Pharma shot back.  
  
The tank leaned even closer. His voice dropped to a low purr. “With you.”  
  
“Nope! No,” Pharma blurted.  
  
“Hmm, have it your way then. There’s plenty of space in the cells below ground. I’ll ask Tesarus to dispose of any, ah, debris that might be left over from our last outing,” Tarn said.  
  
“Are you malfunctioning?” Pharma snapped, “I’m not your prisoner!”  
  
“Certainly not. If you were, I wouldn’t be giving you a choice,” Tarn said, optics twinkling with amusement, “Though I suppose you could spend the night with with one of my teammates--”  
  
“Fine. Fine!” The jet threw up his hands in defeat. Though shacking up with Tarn for the night would be awkward for more reasons than Pharma could count, he could at least feel confident that the tank wouldn’t hurt him. Tarn loved his T-cogs too much.  
  
Unseemly decision made, Pharma pushed back from the table and stomped toward the hallway leading to Tarn’s quarters. His wings rode high and tense on his shoulders. The sooner he fell into the oblivion of recharge the better. Though he avoided optic contact with Tarn, he could feel the Decepticon watching him as he followed a pace behind. Outside the door of Tarn’s room, Pharma stopped. He’d been here before, but only briefly and never like this. Crossing that threshold now felt like crossing crossing a vast chasm on a tightrope: one small misstep and he was falling, lost.  
  
Pharma jumped when he felt Tarn’s chest brush the turbine on his back. The tank stretched an arm out, reaching around Pharma to activate the door controls directly in front of him.  
  
“After you, Doctor,” Tarn breathed against the side of Pharma’s helm. Pharma sucked in a sharp intake and his backstrut straightened. Tarn’s closeness-- the little pulses of his EM field and the warmth of his frame-- were absolutely not what Pharma needed right now. He practically jumped away from Tarn and through the door. He stood stiffly just inside the room and assessed his surroundings. Perhaps there was some other piece of furniture he could sleep on. Something, anything, other than Tarn’s roomy, decadent, inviting bed.  
  
Of course, there was nothing.  
  
“You may use the washrack,” Tarn said, gesturing to another door. Grinning, he laid a hand on Pharma’s shoulder, and the Autobot jumped again. “And relax-- you’re so tense you’re about to snap a cable.”  
  
“No thanks to you,” Pharma muttered and scampered into the washrack. Under the hot spray of solvents, he rested his forehead against the wall. He could do this. It was just one night. He’d certainly survived, and slept through, worse. He would finish cleaning himself, climb into the bed, not look at or speak to Tarn, and fall into recharge. In the morning, he would rise and leave without a word.  
  
Tarn had a rather impressive collection of cleaning solvents and polishes, the likes of which Pharma hadn’t seen since before his dispatch to this Primus-forsaken outpost. Perpetually strapped for resources, Delphi only supplied the most basic of solvents. Pharma availed himself freely of Tarn’s supplies, taking his time to indulge and scrub, wax, and polish every inch of plating he could reach. It had been vorns since he’d had the opportunity to pay such attention to his appearance.  
  
When he finally emerged, he was greeted by the sight of Tarn sprawled out on the bed reading a databad. He was propped up, half-sitting, with one leg folded and the other extended long. It was such a relaxed, unassuming pose-- almost comically out of place for a mech like Tarn, who always seemed larger than life. Tarn glanced up from his datapad and Pharma realized he’d been staring. It was too late; Tarn’s gaze had already met his.  
  
Tarn averted his optics after a torturously long moment-- only to drag them slowly down, then back up Pharma’s frame, as he purred, “My, you clean up nicely, Doctor.”  
  
Pharma’s wings quivered. He abruptly found something very fascinating to stare at on the far wall. Tarn rose from the bed, approached... then brushed past to take his turn in the washrack.  
  
“Do make yourself comfortable, Doctor,” Tarn said, inclining his head toward the bed.  
  
Pharma waited until Tarn had shut the door before approaching the bed. Tarn had been laying on the side closer to the washrack. Assuming that was his preference, Pharma shuffled to the opposite side and laid down gingerly. Tarn’s bed was luxurious and Pharma settled comfortably on his side, fervently hoping to slip into recharge quickly.  
  
He must’ve nodded off, as he came back online with a start when he felt the bed shift. Tarn was climbing in beside him, but stilled when he saw Pharma startle awake. He watched Pharma, optics glowing inscrutably. Pharma’s spark fluttered in its casing and he immediately rolled back over. Tarn said nothing as he settled himself. The lights flickered off. For once, Tarn didn’t seem interested in talking.  
  
Recharge, however, eluded Pharma. No matter how cozy he felt, his processor refused power down. Not with Tarn right there, and in an oddly fascinating state of vulnerability no less. His frame generated steady waves of heat. Pharma could hear every cycle of air through his intakes. The pink biolights on his chest cast a soft glow across his dark plating, throwing edges and shadows into sharp relief. Tarn still wore his mask. Did he always recharge with it on, or was tonight an exception?  And what might he look like without it? Pharma slipped into a doze as he began to imagine-- was Tarn handsome or plain? Perhaps he was horribly scarred or deformed? What would his facial expressions look like? His smile, his lips...  
  
“Pharma...”  
  
Tarn’s sleep-roughened voice rumbled against the back of Pharma’s helm. He was annoyed at Tarn for taking up too much space, until he noticed that his own side of the bed was much further away than he remembered it being. Embarrassment heated his plating as he realized he was the one who’d been inching closer.  
  
“Recharge,” the drowsy tank murmured against his plating, “You’ll have to fly away home very early tomorrow.”  
  
Tarn was right, of course. He knew he should roll back to his side and put Tarn out of his mind. But Tarn was so warm and, even though the base was well-insulated, there was no repelling the chill of the brutal storm outside. Pharma’s frame felt heavy and languid and he sank into the plush cage of Tarn’s bedding.  
  
“Can’t recharge,” Pharma said.  
  
“Why is that?” Tarn whispered, still so close.  
  
“Just can’t,” the jet replied. Warmth and exhaustion had taken their toll. His thoughts were foggy and dream-like.  
  
“Hmm,” Tarn hummed. Pharma gasped when he felt a weight descend on his side. It was hardly the first time Tarn had touched him-- he found any excuse to do so as often as possible-- but this time it was disturbingly intimate.  
  
Don’t, Pharma thought. But the word never made it to his lips. The hand began to rub gently at his plating, just above the curve of his hip.  
  
And then Tarn began to sing. Not loudly, but full of hazy passion, and beautifully. The words were eerie Primal Vernacular and the melody was slow and haunting. Something about it stirred deep in Pharma’s spark-- not the hot, unnatural lurches caused by Tarn’s vocalizer mods, but a smolder that made his frame tremble, his intakes tighten, and his optics prickle.  
  
Tarn’s voice crescendoed as his hand slid around to Pharma’s front, trapping the jet in an embrace. He scraped across the Autobot insignia in the center of his chest, toyed with his shoulder vents. Warm air gusted across Tarn’s fingers, betraying a steadily rising temperature. Pharma squirmed and gave a crackling groan as he stretched his back, arching closer against Tarn in the process. Tarn’s engines turned over at the feel of smooth wings rubbing against his chest.  
  
The final notes of the song hung long in the air before plunging into a sub-bass growl. Pharma felt it more than heard it, rattling through his back straight into his core. Tarn wasn’t holding him all that tightly; it occurred to Pharma that he could elbow the Decepticon, throw his arm off, and crawl back to his own side of the bed. But with the precursors of recharge slowing his processor, with Tarn’s strong hand smudging and scratching down the yellow glass on his abdomen, that massive, thrumming frame curled protectively around his own, retaliation seemed impossible. Unnecessary.  
  
Pharma squirmed when Tarn reached even lower and began to stroke along the open seam at the juncture of his inner thigh and hip. The jet bit his lower lip to contain a whine and his arm flew backward to grab onto Tarn’s treads, or neck, or chest, or anything to anchor himself against the surge of heat flaring between his legs. In a clearer state of mind Pharma would’ve been embarrassed by how charged up he was from a few simple touches and a sweet voice. He was thoroughly caught off guard; of all the ways he’d pictured an interface with Tarn (far more than he’d care to admit), slow and tender and affectionate had not been among them.  
  
The gentle, inquisitive touches continued along Pharma’s thighs and hips, soothing and wickedly teasing. The jet’s valve had begun to throb in time with the ever-increasing tempo of his spark. He felt stifling hot despite the harsh whirr of his cooling fans, and clumsily kicked the blankets away.  
  
“Ah-- Tarn--” Pharma murmured as the tank’s fingertips brushed across the seam of his interface panel. It instantly snapped open. Pharma didn’t even have time to react before one of Tarn’s thick fingers had sunk inside him. He gave a strangled moan as the sensor-rich mesh lining the valve walls stretched and squeezed around the intrusion.  
  
“Oh,” Tarn breathed, engine revving when he felt how wet and hot Pharma was, “No wonder you couldn’t recharge. You’ve been hiding something from me...”  
  
“Sh-shut up-- Ahh--” Pharma was already near incoherence, any semblance of words trailing off into another moan as Tarn slowly pulled his finger back out and traced around the tight entrance. Rich tendrils of pleasure curled through Pharma’s circuitry. He wiggled his hips, trying to get Tarn back inside.  
  
“So eager. I like that,” Tarn said. He ground forward against Pharma’s aft and dragged his finger upward between swollen outer lips until he felt the jet’s frame jerk in his arms. He smirked beneath his mask and continued to stroke the slick exterior sensor node he’d found.  
  
Pharma grabbed Tarn’s hand-- there was a moment when logic and higher functioning and self-preservation prevailed-- but only a moment, and instead of pushing Tarn away he was was guiding him, adjusting the position and pressure and speed of his touches to the way he liked it best. Tarn was all too happy to be led and watched raptly as Pharma’s optics dimmed and flickered, his jaw hung slack, and his wings began to flutter uncontrollably.  
  
“Are you close, Pharma? I can feel you trembling...” Tarn said, low and husky. He nuzzled the vents on the side of Pharma’s helm, warm breath tickling across them through the small opening in his mask.  
  
Primus, he was now. Tarn saying his name like that sent a lightning bolt of heat down his backstrut. He rocked his hips against Tarn’s hand and made a pained sound through clenched jaws as overload shivered relentlessly through his frame. His valve walls squeezed so hard that lubricant gushed out onto his inner thighs and all over Tarn’s hand. He had barely recovered when Tarn began pawing at his frame, soiled hand smearing streaks of lubricant across the jet’s plating. Pharma soon found himself manhandled onto his front, his aft being lifted.  
  
“Tarn...” he said weakly. Don’t. Stop. The words muddled in his processor, swirling together from protest to plea. But Tarn hesitated upon hearing him speak, backing off to massage his wings instead.  
  
“More...” Pharma sighed, melting into the caresses. He arched his back and parted his thighs wider.  
  
All of Tarn’s biolights flared brighter as he growled possessively against Pharma’s back. An instant later the thick, hot length of his spike was rubbing against the jet’s aft, then pressing into his well-lubricated valve. The heap of pillows swallowed Pharma’s cries as he was slowly penetrated. Tarn was a large mech in every way, and while the stretch in his valve wasn’t quite painful, Pharma felt absolutely stuffed full. The intense pressure against all the sensors in his valve walls had him writhing. Tarn was big enough to press on the most deeply buried nodes, ones beyond even the reach of Pharma’s nimble fingers. Tarn took him at an unhurried pace, pulling out part way then easing back in with steady, measured thrusts. His engine revved hard each time he seated fully inside Pharma. The vibrations traveled all along the length of his spike and deep into the jet’s valve. Pharma moaned wantonly at the intense sensations and rolled his aft back onto Tarn’s spike. The lining of his valve was still crackling with residual energy from his first overload, and he could already feel a second one coiling in his tanks. Tarn’s pace increased ever so slightly, each forward snap of hips accompanied by a quiet, breathy moan.  
  
“Ohh Pharma, you feel so good...” the tank purred those honeyed, lusty words directly against the side of Pharma’s helm-- prompting an impatient litany of profanity-laced commands to do it faster, harder already, Primus dammit!  
  
Tarn obeyed with delight, applying his considerable strength to pound Pharma into the bed. The clang of metal and the wet slapping of interface components punctuated their increasingly loud and desperate moans. Pharma canted his hips even higher, Tarn slid in just a bit deeper, and Pharma was thrashing under him in a second overload, even more intense than the first. His frame convulsed and his valve clamped down so hard it was nearly painful. Tarn didn’t let up and fucked him all the way through it, drawing out the intense pleasure until Pharma’s entire frame felt raw and over-sensitized. Another wave of lubricant gushed out of his well-used valve and smeared all over Tarn’s hips. The tank moved faster as Pharma bounced beneath him, utterly spent and pliant. Tarn buried himself as deep as physically possible, long, sweet moans cascading from his vocalizer as his spike pulsed inside Pharma. Fluid spurted into the jet’s over-stuffed and over-sensitized valve, make him twitch against the bed.  
  
They lay still for long cycles. Cooling fans gradually slowed, ventilations eased back to normal. Pharma wriggled under Tarn’s heavy, but not uncomfortable, weight pressing down on him. At some point their hands had interlocked; Pharma hastily jerked his away. Tarn said nothing. Holding Pharma tightly, he rolled them both onto their sides, his spike still in the jet’s valve. Despite the satisfaction he felt, the blissful silence in his processor for once, Pharma couldn’t ignore the stickiness of fluids drying on both their plating.  
  
He pushed ineffectually against Tarn’s embrace. “Mmph. You’re a mess. I’m a mess. Your bed is a mess. And now we both have to sleep in it.”  
  
“Such a fussy little thing,” Tarn chuckled, toying idly with Pharma’s chevron.  
  
Pharma huffed and wiggled his way out of Tarn’s grip. His spike slipped out, and another rush of fluid followed it. Pharma wrinkled his nose.  
  
“Correction: you have to sleep in it,” the jet said, and swiftly rolled back to the other side of the bed.  
  
“So ungrateful for my hospitality,” Tarn feigned outrage before sliding over next to Pharma. Once again he took the prickly jet in his arms and held him close.  
  
Pharma gave a long-suffering sigh, but found that his desire to argue with Tarn was fighting a losing battle with his desire for long-overdue recharge. Would he be late returning to Delphi, as a result of the storm and staying up much later than intended? Probably. Pharma remembered that Ambulon had morning shifts this week, and it would be easy to blackmail the runaway Decepticon into silence. Ambulon was on the List, and the only thing standing between him and Pharma’s current... patient? Business associate? Lover? Was Pharma himself. The jet smiled as he sank into recharge. Perhaps the storm would rage through the next day as well.  
  
What a pity that would be. 


End file.
